The Canonization of Dean and Sam
by Nichneven
Summary: Wincest without all the sex and groping. It's my specialty. Told from John's POV... the evolution of Sam and Dean was as natural as the waves crashing into the beach. Through life, college and death, there is always Sam and Dean.


**Title** – The Canonization of Dean and Sam  
**Rating** – PG13  
**Pairing** – Sam/Dean... in John's POV, sorta.  
**Disclaimer** - All characters and original plots belong to Eric Kripke and The CW. No disrespect or copyright infringement is intended.

**Author Notes- **Wincest without all the sex. It's my specialty. I think Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" is the perfect soundtrack for reading this one. Enjoy! Don't forget to review!

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There was no hope for it. The Winchester boys had been symbiotic their entire lives. Every action of Dean's created a corresponding reaction—and vice versa. They were different on many levels—Dean was more prone to growls than laughs, Sam was more prone to smiles than frowns, Dean liked hard rock, Sam liked smooth jazz—but they were complementary in every way. Dean was the bad cop to Sam's good cop. Sam was the voice of reason in Dean's angry rant. Dean was the filthy words falling from Sam's pristine lips. Sam was the blue to Dean's orange on the color wheel of life.

So the morning John Winchester returned from a solo hunt to find his sons naked and tangled in the sheets of one bed in their dingy motel room, he did little more than sigh in relief. Dean was twenty-three, Sam was nineteen. John had been impressed they had made it so long—and he did not think for a minute that they had crossed the line before that night. His boys had never been skilled in hiding their emotions when it came to one another, be it rage or lust. Had they taken the final, physical step, John would have known immediately. He couldn't have stopped it, so he never even tried. Hell, the hunters they had encountered over the years all remarked on it.

Ellen even had a book where she kept beats on the evolution of the boys' relationship. The odds had been damn near 100 to 1 that the transformation would have happened within the week Sam turned sixteen. John had, in fact, lost a lot of hard-hustled money on that particular bet. He wasn't proud to admit that he'd even tried to hedge his chances by prodding his sons into the final step. Yeah, not his finest moment. After that, John kept a nominal bet hedged at each boy's birthday every year. The payoff hadn't been as large when it had finally happened, but it had all been in fun. Ash had run a program that allowed him to pick the exact damn day it happened. Wiley, tech geek bastard.

Sam had delayed Stanford for a year, but he _had_ eventually gone… with Dean in tow. There had never been a doubt that Dean would follow Sam, so John never objected to losing his hunting partner. The boys had rented a Cracker Jack apartment off-campus and filled it with second-hand furniture and trinkets of love.

Dean, a born hunter and determined nomad, had dropped his anchor and happily kept their plants and goldfish alive. Sam blossomed under the tutelage of his professors and the sunshine of Dean's love. He had cajoled his older brother into take a few Religion and Mythology classes in the university's non-degree-seeking program… and then had convinced him to apply for degree-seeking status. They had celebrated mightily the afternoon of Sam's graduation—and again a semester later when Dean walked the stage. John had applauded loudly at both ceremonies, sternly ordering his tears away.

Then John had asked for help, and just like that, the boys went back on the hunt. Sam, who wanted normalcy and stability, pulled up his anchor and happily navigated as they played Red Light Green Light with the demons and spirits of America. Dean blossomed under the weight of the framed degree hidden in the trunk and under the moon rays of Sam's love.

The brother's physical love followed the track of their entwined lives. There was give and take, anger and love, fear and safety, top and bottom… and flipped around again. It was staid at times, flamboyant at others. They never touched on a hunt, not where demons could see and manipulate the iron strings of their love. But after the hunt, their skin sought contact like a willow tree growing toward a body of water. Their knees pressed tightly together in diner after diner. Their fingers linked as the Impala ate the miles before them. A head leaned into the crook of a neck as they read obscure newspaper clippings from towns just as obscure. A shoulder brush as they visited with Bobby. A playful finger to the ribs at The Roadhouse as they swapped stories with other hunters. A hand on the small of a back as they laughed with John.

A lingering hug after a few drinks and before the door was unlocked.

A kiss that suspends the movement of the planets and arrests the wind. A kiss that wraps itself around the base of the great Redwoods and caresses its roots. A kiss that freezes and melts the clouds, conjuring both rain and rainbows. A kiss that trembles the earth deep in its Tectonic plates. A kiss that steals the chirping of crickets and the babbling of brooks. A kiss that makes thunder purr and lightening groan. A kiss that heralds the beginning and ending of all things.

It never made John uncomfortable. His sons were the sun and the moon, night and day—one simply did not, _could not_, exist without the other.

When tragedy struck deep, John was hammered to his spot, damned to be a witness. One of his boys on the wet, blood soaked floor of a random crypt in Middle America. One kneeling close, preparing for the end. John stood outside their closed circle of grief as if he was a ghost trying to cross a salt line. He heard the murmured words of devotion and undying love. He saw the feather-light touches and the frantic holds. He felt the moment of death, like a strong gust had blown his skin off his bones. He heard Sam's fervent prayer, closed with a word that engulfed and embodied every word in every language on record that ever existed: _Please_.

The silence threatened to suffocate. No tree dared to rustle its branches in disrespect. The lowest organism in the cemetery paused in burrowing. The blood on the floor ceased its flow, pooling instead like a halo around Dean's head. Sam was the only being that dared to move, pulled as he was toward the coffin of his brother's soul, toward his body. The younger Winchester pressed his lips to his brothers, stealing the last moisture, the last living thing from Dean. His own tears splashed down, not bothering to touch his face in their haste to fall, to express their crushing sorrow. Sam's back curled as he attempted to soak his brother's shell into his own body, to consume and contain his love.

And then John witnessed the shower of light and grace that flooded both of his sons, lifting them to their feet, but not breaking their kiss. The luminescence burst out of the tiny pores on the boys' skin, granting the world an unfettered view at perfection. Dean gasped into his brother's mouth as the brilliant white light faded, but left them both faintly glowing.

John dropped to his knees and let his senses drink in the desperate reunion between two halves of one soul. Words and touches and kisses that opened Heaven and defied Hell.

~END~

**A/N: Well. That was interesting. I've never written a silent fic before. I'm usually a dialogue whore, but there was something about the love between Dean and Sam in "Metamorphosis" that made this silence seep out of me. Also, I blame Jeff Buckley's song "Hallelujah". I would appreciate reviews/ opinions.**


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